


Shop Around

by celestialism



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Meet-Cute, Out-of-control Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7377244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialism/pseuds/celestialism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray owns an outdoor/adventure gear store. Brad shows up. That's literally it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shop Around

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is inspired by me actually knocking two wakeboards from a display in a shop the other day, and the fact that the shop itself inspired me through name alone. i haven't explicitly named it for fears of being found by the company and told that i shouldn't write gay meet-cutes with their business as a setting.
> 
> also, i wrote this in like 3 hours so i apologise for everything.
> 
> for erin

Contrary to popular belief, Saturdays are quiet days. For Ray, at least. 

After all, weekends are for _using_ outdoor equipment; Ray figures that if you’re buying gear on a weekend, you’re one of those people that’s telling yourself you’re going to use it someday, maybe next weekend. Next weekend becomes next month, and so on. You never do end up using those hiking boots, or that wakeboard, and definitely not that eight-man tent. (Thanks for contributing to your local small business though, come back soon!)

 

Saturdays are the days where Ray can rearrange displays, or fix the wiring of the computer at the register whilst listening to his music in peace. The shop is off the main road, but still a little ways off the main shopping complex; it’s a good location that means he avoids the crowds but still maintains a steady customer base. 

Adequate. Comfortable. Quiet.

Of course, quiet is undeniably relative to those days that don’t involve something akin to the sound of one of his walls collapsing, interrupting Dolly Parton singing about having her man stolen. 

 

Startled from his position underneath the register, Ray’s head connects with the edge of the counter. Cursing under his breath, and massaging what he expects will turn into a pretty impressive lump on the back of his head, Ray whirls around to investigate the source of the disruption.

From the backroom, Walt peeks his head out the door, concern wrinkling his brow. Ray follows his eye-line to the surf boards set up against one of the walls. Or, rather, where the surf boards had been set up against the wall. There’s a blond head moving to and fro somewhat frantically. 

Heaving a sigh, and motioning to Walt that he can go back to his break, Ray slips out from behind the counter and strides over to the far wall. He weaves among the jackets and shoes and is preparing to give some dumb kid the verbal reaming of his life when he rounds the wetsuit rack and is met not with some wanna-be surfer bro whose balls haven’t dropped yet, but instead with piercing blue eyes, neatly cropped blonde hair, and broad shoulders encased in tight cotton. The man unfolds himself from the crouch on the floor, three stacked shortboards casually held in one arm, and he just keeps going - standing straight-backed and haughty, glowering from well over six feet.

 

Ray is well aware he’s staring, in fact, his mouth is almost definitely open and he wouldn’t put it past himself to be actually drooling, but he has the presence of mind to click his jaw shut for a moment, before schooling his features and crossing his arms against his chest.

“Look, I get it, you just got Rainbow Bridged into our realm and don’t know how this-“ he gestures between them “- works. But if you wanted my attention, you could have just asked for assistance at the front desk. That’s what us mere mortals do.”

There’s a small part of him that’s considering that this guy might not appreciate Ray’s approach; he really doesn’t look like takes a lot of shit from anyone, but then again, he might actually be foreign, or just ready to Hulk out, both possibilities do not evade Ray’s notice. But hey, if he get’s punched, there’s CCTV footage that proves that it was _physically_ unprovoked.

That being said, the majority of Ray, however, is focused on the way that the corner of this guy’s mouth twitches slightly, not enough to minimise his glare, but enough for Ray to notice. (Enough for Ray to know he’s not going to eat the concrete flooring.)

“Perhaps, if I hadn’t been so abruptly subjected to the caterwauling of the spawn of six generations of inbreeding, I wouldn’t have been thrust into such an alarming situation.” He frowns at Ray before moving, placing the surfboards carefully back into their display against the wall. 

Carefully ignoring the way that the word ‘thrust’ had been insouciantly dropped into the conversation (and the warmth that spread the back of his neck), and the laughter bubbling up somewhere around his sternum, Ray raises his chin.

“Are you talking about Her Excellency Dolly Parton?” he asks, finger pointed in the direction of the overhead speakers. He gasps in mock distress and clutches at his heart. “I will have you know that she is a pioneer of modern country sound. Furthermore, she represents the hard work of Southern women and their tireless contributions to an all-American industry of entertainment and culture. Dolly Parton is the Madonna of country, in fact, she’s better than Madonna, because Madonna was all about wearing traffic cones on her chest and would have taken both your eyes out if you tried getting within three feet of her. Thanks to the Dolly Parton at least you got a whole generation of chicks trying to be Mae West again. You’re fucking welcome, homes.”

With each word, the Blond Man’s eyebrows creep higher towards his hairline. Incredibly, his scowl remains intact. Scientifically engineered freak of nature. Ray grins and gathers up two of the remaining boards, shuffling them over to the others. 

“You know, for a guy who clearly eats all his Wheeties, you sure as shit are clumsy,” he remarks, inspecting a fibreglass fin before slotting the board among the others. “Do you need those little blinking lights for your biceps?” He finds himself very close to his very Viking-esque companion, who calmly maintains his hold on the propped-up shortboards. The fact that he hasn’t yet knocked Ray’s teeth out of his skull is a good sign, and Ray’s willing to bet his best sunglasses that he just saw him suppress a laugh.

“For a guy who clearly ingests his body weight in caffeine, you may want to utilise your stores of energy in a more constructive task than running your mouth. Like, for example, checking your furniture.” He inclines his head to where, indeed, the rudimentary plank structure of the display had given way; the parallel piece of wood that was supposed to be boxing the boards in had snapped. It was something that would have happened eventually with regular wear, and Ray couldn’t help but consider what would have happened if a child had been standing in place of a clearly competent adult…

“Hey,” a weight on Ray’s shoulder makes him glance into the guy’s face again, where he’s surprised to find it had softened slightly. “Better it end up on me than someone else. None of them are broken, are they?”

“No, they’re perfectly fine, just like you,” Ray blinks slightly, before pouting deliberately at the smirk that he’s met with. "You still should have asked for help with the boards, Gigantor.” he adds with a roll of his eyes. “There _is_ a sign.”

Reaching back for the bungee cord he keeps at his belt (“Yes, Walt, the day _will_ come when it will be put to good use. Just you wait.” “Yeah, okay, until that day you will look like a fucking idiot but whatever.”), Ray notices that the hand that had been placed on his shoulder hasn’t moved. Not that he's complaining. Ray kicked himself inwardly for staring at the tendons in the guy’s forearm for what was evidently an uncomfortably long time, because with a slight clearing of his throat, the blond man places his hand back along the surf boards to steady them, while Ray anchors them with the cord.

“Did you actually need any help with anything?” Ray asks genially, stepping back after making certain the boards are secured. He turns his gaze to his potential customer, and is reacquainted with the cosmic joke that is the fact that someone has dumped Michelangelo’s David (albeit with more proportional hands - _not_ that Ray had been paying attention), into his shop on a Saturday afternoon. A marble incarnation that was now blinking owlishly down at Ray, one corner of his mouth quirked up.

“No. I just really wanted to get your attention.” his delivery is deadpan, but there’s a guarded sort of look in his eye that Ray doesn’t want to get his hopes up about. “I do think I want to pay for this, though.” He leans down to retrieve a crumpled wetsuit from the floor, and Ray is momentarily distracted by the contracting muscles of his back. 

Apparently, not acting as discreetly as he thinks, Ray comes face to face with a knowing smirk. Clearing his throat, he mumbles a rough “This way then”, and prays that his face isn’t going as red as he thinks it is.

 

Aside from Ray’s automatic “Cash or card?”, there is silence between them as Ray folds the wetsuit into a bag which Tall, Blond and Brooding takes it with a grateful nod. It’s not awkward, but there’s definitely a weight to the moment that Ray can’t quite place. 

(Ray is certain he imagines calloused fingers dragging deliberately along his hand when he’s being handed the requisite cash, and blue eyes lingering on the exposed tattoos of his arms when he reaches over the counter…)

 

Ray’s lifting his hand in a two-fingered salute when the guy stops at the end of the counter and rummages in his bag. He’s not smirking anymore; his features have softened into an almost hesitant grin. He pulls out the receipt that Ray had printed and swipes a pen from the holder by the register. Moments later he’s almost out the door, and ten innocuous, neatly printed digits stare up at Ray.

Ray’s mouth catches up faster than his brain.

 

“Hey, does you’re genetically modified, Aryan fantasy ass have a name?” he calls after the retreating figure.

“It’s Brad, you buck-toothed degenerate. I wasn’t sure if you could read letters yet.”

 

Ray tucks the receipt into his pocket with a chuckle.

 

_Brad_.

**Author's Note:**

> there is nothing more difficult than writing nameless pronouns why did i do this


End file.
